


my whole existence is flawed

by Laurentia



Category: Emerald City (TV 2016)
Genre: F/F, Glinda is more than a bit tense, These ridiculous staring ladies, West is a bit drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9403094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurentia/pseuds/Laurentia
Summary: Glinda arrives promptly at the arranged time. She is the picture of prim propriety and looks every inch the dignified custodian of the North she is - frankly West’s surprised she's not wearing her fucking headdress such is the sense of ceremony she carries with her wherever she goes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This ship is trash and it has stolen my soul. Title is from Nine Inch Nails 'Closer'. If I owned any of this shit you can bet there'd be less 'Wizard being a creeper' scenes and a LOT more 'Glinda making sexual sounding threats to West' scenes.

Glinda arrives promptly at the arranged time. She is the picture of prim propriety and looks every inch the dignified custodian of the North she is - frankly West’s surprised she's not wearing her fucking headdress such is the sense of ceremony she carries with her wherever she goes.

Even this sordid little something, though she's never sure whether Glinda thinks of their time together as a sinful indulgence or another hair shirt she must wear as part of her sacred sequestered life.

“Have you washed yourself today?” Glinda asks by way of a greeting, eyes roaming distastefully around the bedroom. As though she's never seen it before. As though she's never lain on such rumpled sheets or ordered West to bind her hands to the bedposts.

“Ah,” she replies, arms and legs sprawled comfortably over an armchair by her ever-crackling fire, gesturing with her goblet to acknowledge Glinda. “I knew there was something I meant to do.”

Glinda's staring at a wall-hanging, determinately not meeting her eye but West can see the control on her sister's face even through her hazy, poppy-soft vision. It makes her smile as little else does these days. Magic was all but dead – which wasn’t altogether a _bad_ thing – and though she had no great love for governance living in a second-rate-on-a-good-night whorehouse because an insidious oaf of a man held their temple to ransom burnt her deeply. But those flames merely licked over her skin when compared to the deep scold of Glinda’s ire. Flesh wounds smarted but bubbling anger lay beneath Glinda’s façade and despite all of that, she snorted, Glinda still couldn't say out loud, or even admit to herself, why she came to West’s domain for her balm.

“Were you seen?”

“Of course not,” Glinda says sharply, head held aloft as she stood regally in the middle of the room. Anyone else in the same position would look awkward but just as she gorges on poppies and pleasure to maintain a feeling of freedom so Glinda maintains her control with fanatical serenity. She doesn't begrudge her. On the other hand Glinda is not here to talk about the great mysteries of Oz’s history so a little bit of ruffling is not wholly inappropriate.

“Pity. I’ve had several requests from soldiers for girls that look _just_ _like you_ ,” she says gleefully, drawing out the last words to watch the reaction with eyes starved of anything real. “You could have earned your supper several times over.”

Glinda air of sufferance is so familiar that West embraces it happily, revels in it even.

“They’re not the most skilled I must admit. Enough for some of your girls though, poor little mites. Sometimes,” Glinda hasn’t twitched yet and that will never do. “They’re like blushing brides so eager for a bedding they don’t even mind my presence.”

Pearly white skin stretched taut across Glinda’s jaw and West can only imagine how rigidly her jaw is set. There’s a slight but noticeable throb at her pulse point and West licks her wine-stained lips, wondering if Glinda will allow herself to be marked. It’s unlikely of course, Glinda barely acknowledges her own base desires so she certainly won’t allow any outward sign of them.

She probably has dresses with high enough collars though.

“Can I tempt you to a drink?” Her gaze never leaves Glinda, she’s already imagining the skin below the gown that she _can_ have, skin that she has marked as hers alone with raking teeth and lavish tongue to soothe the bite, with deep heliotrope tracks of fingerprints she can heal with agonisingly tender touch. Whether her sister admits it or not they both know her body is built for pleasure, not cruel abstinence, and West will find her own marks on coldly perfect white limbs. The bruises from last time will have long since faded – Glinda is not a glutton as she is; her pleasures fade quickly but Glinda recalls each second and lives on it for longer than West could bear – but she can sense their ghostly linger just as much as Glinda can. “Or a chair at least? You’ll never-”

“Stop talking.” Glinda drawls with ersatz restraint, finally looks at her properly and West could drown in the furious oceans of her sister’s eyes. “Must we entertain this ridiculous charade of pleasantry?”

West tilts her head and shrugs lazily, her whole body a tightly coiled snake waiting for just the right moment to strike. She knows Glinda’s waiting for it too but she won’t until her sister actually commands her – it’s an undeniable thrill to know Glinda is frustrated enough to voice her needs. “As you wish,” she says offhandedly, then: “As ever.”

Glinda takes a deep breath, lips curling at the incense that seeps into the pores of this room, so used to the clean air of the North that the moment she’s in West’s domain she can feel herself sinking into its suffocating sordidness, drowning willingly.

“Get up.”

Lounging her head on the backrest of her chair West raises an eyebrow, lifts the goblet and takes her sweet time over a sip, licking her lips clean of each droplet of wine. Glinda stares, hands clasped neatly in front of her and West can see her fingers tightening slowly. She runs her tongue across her bottom lip speculatively and watches Glinda’s thumb nail bite into her own skin.

“I said-”

“I heard what you said,” she says firmly, tilting her goblet back until its empty before dropping it uncaringly on the floor for someone else to deal with later. “I’m not one of your acolytes Glinda,” her eyebrow twitches as she curls her lips. “Luckily for you.”

And then – absolutely _not_ because Glinda ordered it – she’s on her feet, flying across the room with inhuman speed. Her fingers curl around Glinda’s arms, spinning her roughly around and delighting in the gasp from Glinda’s chilly lips as her hands grasp her hips possessively from behind.  

“Bedpost,” she instructs in a low growl, pressing her chest against Glinda’s back as she manoeuvres her closer to the bed. Resistance is part of Glinda’s whole being so when she does nothing but close her eyes and breath West is unsurprised. She wraps her fingers around Glinda’s fine-boned wrist until she felt Glinda’s hand begin to spasm and leaned in to whisper in her ear. Secrets only they knew. “I’d hold on if I were you.”

“You’re not me,” Glinda replies in her level voice, nevertheless doing as she’s told and bowing her head to press her forehead against the cool, carved wood. Eyes down, lips pursed. West can play her role just as well.

“And we should be glad of it,” her unseen grin is feral and she strokes her fingers up Glinda’s lace-covered arms. “If both of us wore so much we’d be here all night.”

In one swift move she shrugs her own dress off her shoulder and lets it pool at the floor around her feet, kicking it away. Glinda evidently hears the rustle but when she tries to turn her head to look with appraising eyes West’s hand is waiting for her, pushing her cheek back firmly. And when she seamlessly curls her fingers underneath Glinda’s chin, pressing into the soft hollow at the top of her throat with just the right amount of pressure to make Glinda tip her head back they both sigh when West presses her body against Glinda’s back.

“Don’t you dare move,” West orders, sliding a foot between Glinda’s to nudge her feet apart. Her fingers attack the tiny buttons on Glinda’s gown manically, tearing some and leaving others dangling by barely a single thread but if Glinda wanted soft worship she would make use of one of her girls. West’s often imagined it to be a great source of frustration to her sister – to be surrounded by pretty young things who would do her bidding without question but never truly grasp what Glinda wanted, what she _needed_.

There were many layers to a human – or a witch – West knew, and Glinda was an exceptional example. First the Orphanage: the girls, the order, the confinement. All easily stripped away whenever Glinda walked in front of them. They were not part of her, just as her girls will never be part of her intrinsic self, and so they are easily shod. Then the magic: more part of West than she would like and not as much as part of Glinda as she knows the other woman wishes. She always had the instinct, Glinda the harness for her excesses. But the magic betrayed them – what had once elevated them now made them pariahs, too esteemed for the noose, too powerful for the open skies.

Her hazy stronghold of sin and Glinda’s cold marble citadel are physical palisades they have created to keep the world at bay. But the only difference between a fortress and a prison is the side of the door that possesses the locks.

Their facades never fooled each other. Glinda’s honeyed words to the wizard are too clearly oozing around shards of ice for West to be fooled and her sister knows her heart: knows her fears as East does.

She is the only one who has ever seen the last layer of Glinda’s defences fall away, though it is less a defence at the moment, more an inconvenience that West yanks down her tall frame with strong hands, ripping at the flimsier material beneath the pretty gems without fucks to give out.

“Hands,” she snaps authoritatively from where she kneels behind Glinda, her own tracing up the back of creamy calves, pressing fingers into the back of Glinda’s knees. She feels the tremble and cackles.

“Slow or quick?” She croons, nails brushing up the back of long lean thighs. She rakes her nails back down like a cat taking a lazy swipe at a roped post. “Soft or hard?”

Wasted words are not her sister’s favourite things and she can feel the impatience in Glinda’s rigidly still thighs, the tense muscles that make them such sculptured wonders a testimony to the abstinence of their owner. Briefly she ponders the possibility of taking Glinda slowly one day – tonight is not for new steps though, merely treading in the footprints of paths she has taken before. Will no doubt take again.

Without preamble she slips her hand between thighs that only just give her space and presses her thumb inside Glinda, fingers wrapping around the top of her inner thigh to grip with bruising fingers. The only response is a sharp intake of breath and West has barely gotten in past the knuckle – she grins and presses her open mouth to the back of her thigh, lips and teeth assaulting alabaster flesh.

Glinda practices what she preaches – usually: so she's tight. Deliciously tight. West licks her dry lips as she slides out, gathers wetness between her fingers - Glinda hates it, _hates it_ whenever she vocalises anything coarse and so West takes delight in doing just that - and pushes two fingers roughly into a sultry heat more inviting than its owner.

“You’re wetter than any of my girls.”

Glinda whines and growls, insulted and furious by the comparison but when she begins a slow, measured rhythm of in-and-out moans slip from her lips that make her look pained. The hard-won sounds, small though they are, are music to West’s part-deaf sense of how the world sounds – out there the denizens of Oz’s city of tarnished emeralds make dins that rattle in her bones, the cries of ecstasy – false or otherwise, though she can tell the difference several rooms away – that sound through her home are pleasant distraction. Glinda’s reluctant murmurs are a fucking symphony on her soul.

“Say it for me.”

“No,” admirable, _infuriating_ detachment. She hates her. She loves her.

“I said-”

“I heard what you said,” Glinda echoes back to her, smug though her neck is flushed, her breathing heavy, her cunt pulling West’s fingers towards her like the currents of an ocean pulling her towards jagged rock. She’ll die if she hits but the siren that calls her is too great. Making Glinda’s body curl is the only bit of magic she has ever truly enjoyed and when she does its _glorious_ , like an exploding star dragging everything that surrounds it towards its own heart.

She needs to be dragged.

“Please Glinda,” she says in a voice smaller than she’s used all night, but one she practices every day for her sister. Because her desperation is what Glinda needs next; her complicity in the illusion that the control is with Glinda. She presses her lips to the back of her thighs again, softer this time, imploring, tracing, her naked body unfurling from where she kneels till she’s on her feet, fingers still sliding in and out torturously.

Her body fits against Glinda’s sleek back perfectly and she bares her teeth when she feels the cool sheen of perspiration touch her nipples.

“For me,” Glinda’s heat against her palm is enough to make her heady and frenzied, the thought of making her burst at her mostly desperately protected seam before pushing her onto her back on her own sheets and soothing claimed territory with her tongue. “ _For me_ ,” she says raggedly, face pressed flush against Glinda’s shoulder. She can hear her sister’s heart beating louder through flesh and bone and nearly wails herself at the insistent need she can feel lurching up with each lazy, lascivious brush of her fingers through slick, swollen heat.

“Say it,” West breaths as her fingers slip free with a silent whine from Glinda and seek out her clit. She doesn’t mean to force, just to tease, and she slides her free arm around Glinda’s waist to pull them close together a second before the rough pads of her midnight-stained fingers rub rough circles over a nub of flesh even Glinda is an obedient servant to.

Her sister gasps wantonly, leaning back against West’s body with willing participation for the first time, one of her daring hands slipping from the bedpost to curl backwards around her sister, fingers awkwardly grasping for purchase on her back as she moaned and shuddered. West moved her fingers harder for a moment, bit down on Glinda’s shoulder on a whim and was delighted when a louder cry reached her ears.

“Glinda-”

“I love you sister,” Glinda says in an unsteady rush, turning to face her with cheeks the same shade as the roses West remembers Glinda used to favour before her world turned ashen, eyes so dark she might be under an enchantment.

West kisses her desperately but without the finesse she sometimes thinks of doing. They are always tongue and teeth by this point but when she feels Glinda nip her bottom lip, drawing blood and not pulling away she is too past the point to remember her occasional flights of fancy about maybe kissing Glinda in the lustrous gardens of Mother South’s long-abandoned palace.

The roses have probably wilted by now.

“Harder,” Glinda implores between kisses, though it’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins and West cups her breast possessively, squeezing and rolling her pebble hard and – she knows from experience but not currently from sight – offensively pink nipple between her fingers. Glinda’s clit is so slippery she lets out a bark of laugh into the other woman’s mouth that earns her a chastising bite on her tongue; she moans, Glinda responds in kind.

Her fingers never cease their favourite rhythm and soon she _feels_ Glinda’s body keen before she hears a single new moan; but she’s ready and she turns her sister smoothly in her arms, relinquishing her breast but not her throbbing, rebellious clit and then they’re on the bed. She’s still rubbing Glinda into a frenzy, still pressing kisses to Glinda’s panting, moaning mouth even as her sister reaches her peak and throws back her mane of hair.

West slows her fingers but does not stop, intoxicated by the low moans that come from Glinda after the initial cry had been wrenched from her lips.  

“Stop.”

“No,” she replies languidly and despite her rebuttal her fingers slid to Glinda’s hip, offering her some reprieve. “It’s my turn.”

“Who says you get a turn?” Glinda asks, her usual austerity somewhat lessened by her eyes only being half-open and her breasts heaving in such a way that West is reminded she hasn’t paid nearly as much attention to them as she wants.

Glinda’s also nearly smiling. This in itself is a rarity that West cherishes like the occasional glimpse of a shooting star.

“My turn,” she husks, crawling up Glinda’s body till she straddling her hips. “To have you as _I_ prefer.”

She has a brief, treacherous image of roses blooming; of more stars in the sky than she could count, all of them pulling her towards their beauty; of walls pulled down; of lives set on parallel courses being brought back to what they ought to be; and, always, of hearing the words she wanted without having to beg for them.

West forced them all from her mind and licked her lips, focussing on the sight of Glinda underneath her, licking her fingers clean ostentatiously and growling at the taste she craved, needed like any other addiction.

They would be here again. Well-trod paths.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm so sorry if there's mistakes. This is unbeta'd but I just needed to get it out there before I went mad and kept adding to it!


End file.
